


Emancipation

by PhantomsDaughter13



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt No Comfort, Mpreg, Stillbirth, This is some serious dark shit, graphic childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8579506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomsDaughter13/pseuds/PhantomsDaughter13
Summary: A nondescript tape from the annals of Hydra. Bucky is forced to give birth alone in a cell at some point during his time in captivity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't have anything to say for myself. If you are easily triggered, read with caution, both for thematic elements and because this was not beta-read.

The quality of the footage is shockingly clear and high resolution, with little static and a sharp rendering of everything within the darkened room. There are clearly several cameras set up as they show enough angles that nothing is hidden within the cramped space. There is very little beyond the grey cinderblock walls, a threadbare cot, commode, and dented metal sink. 

There is a figure sitting on the edge of the bare cot, heavily muscled frame completely nude, skin glistening with sweat. His shoulders are a hard line of tension, one harshly muscled, the other scarred where it is fused with shining metal. 

Rocking slowly back and forth, the figure holds onto the hard, round protrusion pushing out from its lower torso. In profile to the camera of one shot, a flash of silver catches the dim light when he leans back. Shaky, heavy breaths echo through the silence. 

The Winter Soldier’s eyes stare straight ahead as he deliberately breathes in even measurement. One, two, three, four, hold. One, two, three, four, release. When his body tightens noticeably, stiffening from his feet to his jaw, he grits his teeth and breathes with more difficulty, a soft rasp reaching the microphone.

One, two, three, four, hold. 

One, two, three, four, release. 

Repeat. 

His eyes shut involuntarily as his thighs flex during a particularly violent contraction of his belly, rising up on his toes and widening his hips. The dim light bulb shows how the curve of his belly pulls in above the bowl of his pelvis, like an invisible band is ruthlessly squeezing it back into his body. 

This contraction takes longer to leave him, and by the time it does, the Soldier shakily braces his hands on his thighs and drops his head forward, dark, sweaty hair damp and curling against the back of his neck. 

A soft grunt catches in his throat as he seems to have a harder time ordering his breathing back to normal, head moving restlessly from side to side before he heaves his body to standing, both hands coming back to cradle the taut bottom of his stomach’s curve. 

His back is noticeably arched as the weight before him pulls his body out of proportion, and only if you are looking for it could you see the minute wavering of his balance. His feet are planted wide apart on the floor, the muscles of his thighs and calves tensed to hold him up. 

He begins to pace barefoot, his measured breaths matching his steps, echoing softly in the quiet. 

One, two, three, four, hold, one, two, three, four, release. His gait is awkward and noticeably bowlegged, a swayback motion infusing each stride as he visually forces himself to move.

It becomes obvious as his body is overcome with a contraction, each one visually pulling him under mentally and physically. He stops in his tracks, eyes closing tight and jaw visually being grit. The shadows from the dark of the cell delight in the hollows of his cheeks, the lines of his chest. 

Sometimes he stands still, holding his breath as the firm muscles of his abdomen stiffen, bowing his back more and showing the bumps of his vertebrae. For some contractions his shoulders rise to is ears, in others his head moves restlessly, and for some his chin rests against his chest. For each one, he breathes out deeper and more audible grunts and soft moans as they leave. 

He paces his solitary cell for hours, sweat starting to roll down his skin in little rivers while his limbs shake. The contours of his ribs billow where they are visible above his hard belly, deceptively delicate lines belying the Soldier’s effort and showing the stress on his battle-heavy frame. 

As the Soldier’s breaths turn to pants turn to rasping, shivering inhales, he sways back during a visually sharp surge, body falling against the dark lines of concrete and letting it hold him up. His knees spread to hold him up, mouth opening and lips pulling into a grimace, chest frozen in a spasm of pain. 

In the shadows of the cell, he holds his breath until his skin darkens from his cheeks down his throat. His hands, metal and flesh, tighten on the tops of his thighs as he settles his weight down more solidly through his hips. Sharp cuts of tendons and muscle bulge in his throat the longer he remains trapped in his body’s hold. 

A deep gasp bubbles from deep in his chest as a sudden gush of fluid bursts from between his legs, His shoulders flinch and scrape against the wall, the metal one making an ugly, grinding noise. The liquid shines on the skin of his thighs and his calves, the tops of his feet. He gives a full-body shudder as it continues for a few moments before the flow slows.

Panting softly, the Soldier squats a little deeper, once more allowing himself to rest his weight against the wall. He reaches between his legs with his flesh hand and winces. It is too dark to see exactly what he is doing, but the discomfort on his face grows more and more visible as he makes a weak, pained sound and pulls his hand back. 

His pacing resumes, his measured breathing becoming louder and less controlled, his body showing glistening trails of sweat from forehead to calves. He appears uncaring of his nudity, a dark bundle in the corner by the toilet apparently where he has shed his clothes at an earlier point in his labors. 

He seems to be drawn within himself, his gait becoming even more swayback as he walks with his hips thrust forward and the bow of his spine becoming more and more arched as the heavy weight he carried moves deeper and deeper down. His hands are restless, curling around the bump below his ribs, reaching behind to brace his lower back, light catching onto his shoulder blades and glinting dully off the plates of his metal arm. 

With each contraction, he is struck frozen in his tracks, hunching over himself as every muscle becomes rigid, the smallest of tremors shaking through him as he stays still. 

The Soldier seems to become more and more agitated as he continues to walk through the pains, each one ending with him red-faced and trembling on his feet. He is less and less silent, more grunts and sighs and groans escaping the confinement of his throat as the waves come faster and longer. 

His eyes seem to dart more about his cell, turning back to the door on the far side. He never touches it, never goes up to it, but it is clear that as the pain wears on him more that he is looking to it impatiently. 

He is probably thinking fruitlessly of escape. 

Or maybe of rescue. 

But each time an expression of fear seems to come over his harsh features, another attack from within would claim his attention and pull him back. He speaks no words. The door remains silent, unopened, and unmoved. 

He continues to walk, the hard, tight shape of his belly dropping more and more within his tightly muscled frame until it is clear that the Soldier is having a very difficult time moving. All of his breaths grate through his lungs while his chest, shoulders, and face are completely drenched with sweat. 

Finally, he gives in, painstakingly stopping at the mouth of the tiny sink built into the wall, fingers and palms curling around either side of the lip. His knees spread and he squats slightly once more in his place, rocking forward so he is holding most of his weight in his hands and on the balls of his feet. The hard lines of his back are rigid and unyielding, like iron bars. 

The soft sound of running water come from the rust covered tap, a tiny gurgling river that he tries to capture in the cup of his flesh hand and bring to his mouth. His entire body trembles so much that most of the water shakes right out onto his chest, down his throat, on his cheek. When the water seems to stop from an outside source, no matter how far he desperately turns the handle, the Soldier eyes the facet with a look of bewildered misery. 

The next contraction catches him in the midst of his despair, his fingers gripping tight to hold himself up on the metal lip of the sink’s bowl as he hunkers down, feet planting wider and wider. He looks to be struggling at holding his breath, his lips becoming dark and swollen as he bites down on them hard. 

When he is finally released, he slowly pulls himself back up to standing, swaying slightly. His hands move to rest low on his belly as he takes three shaky steps over to the other side of the room. He stops at his cot and lowers his trembling body down onto it, knees spread wide and palms bracing his descent as he rests on his sacrum, lower body exposed. 

His metal arm braces his torso up with his elbow, while the other one shamelessly moves between his legs. His face pinches and pales as he inserts his fingers within himself, brow furrowing tightly and eyes clenching. 

Whatever he felt has him pulling his heavy, graceless body onto the thin, rickety cot, back braced against the concrete. He takes a moment to rest, eyes closed and throat exposed while he breathed noisily. He shifts himself into a more open position, knees splayed, feet hooked onto the edges of the cot’s frame. 

His breath seems to rattle in his chest while his fingers curl around the backs of his thighs: one, two, three, four hold, one, two, three, four, release. 

When the next surge digs in its claws, he pulls back slightly on his legs and grunts. The curve of his stomach sinks even deeper into his torso as he strains, brow furrowing and lips pressed tightly together. His neck arches forward and his veins bulge under his skin before he is forced to take in a few sharp breaths before bearing down again. 

The cycle repeats and repeats itself, his shoulders slipping and sliding against the cinder blocks as he sweats heavier and heavier with his efforts. He ends up with his forearms braced under the valleys of his knees, wrenching his legs apart and back as he curls farther and farther forward, pushing hard and desperately. 

He collapses, hitting the back of his skull with a dull thunk against the wall unfeelingly as he loses what little strength he has built up from the previous contraction. 

His hair is dark and stuck firmly to his cheeks and the join of his shoulder. One curled strand is caught in the corner of his mouth, lips parted around heaving, gasping breaths. 

His face is a deep, dark red, eyes glassy and bruised deep in his face. They stare dazedly beyond his body, beyond the wall in front of him. 

The incongruity of the Soldier’s solid body completely drained of energy causes him to moan brokenly and to struggle upright on the next wave. He manages to pull his left leg back, but his right arm gets only as far as his belly before he gives in and curls into himself, palm flat against his aching muscles. 

The next few contractions continue with him slumping farther and farther onto his side, his left arm the only thing managing to hold his legs apart as he bears down with as much effort as he can muster. 

He eventually ends up coiled flat on his right, both arms wrapped around his quivering left leg, keeping it aloft. The skin between his buttocks and the upper part of his thighs glisten with fluids in the dull light of the cell. 

He pushes for hours, writhing on his cot, pulling his legs and hips this way and that to open himself up, his muscles so exhausted that his belly looks hot and tight and angry where it still pops out low on his frame during the pains, sensitive enough that he moans whenever his fingers brush it in between them. 

There is white foam at the corner of his lips, spittle dripping from his mouth and down his chin with each monstrous, heaving push. Whatever is inside of him is either too stubborn or too big to come out without a fight.

Weeping softly against the thin mattress, the Soldier drags his leg back up for another huge, strenuous push. His face shakes with exertion, skin mottling dark with the rising blood and lack of oxygen underneath. 

Suddenly he takes in a sharp, high-pitched breath, curling even harder forward and groaning deep in his throat, guttural and dark. A bulge starts to round out from behind his anus, a seemingly huge protrusion pushing out against the thin skin. Once more breathing in quickly, the Soldier wrenches his left leg back and reaches down and under with his right hand, pulling his right glute wide as he begins to slowly stretch. 

When the contraction leaves him, he collapses bonelessly against the mattress and wheezes, shaking in the weak light. With the next pain, he goes back at it, grunting and letting out a frustrated cry as he tries to bring what he is heaving against to crown, perineum paling against the pressure extending it out. 

With each shove, the huge object’s girth shows more and more between his legs, and the Soldier seems to become frantic with distress as it moves farther and farther out of his body. 

He drags himself up onto his knees at one point, keeping them spread far apart while he bows so far forward that the crown of his head presses into the mattress and holds up the bend of his frame. He undulates his back as he strains, from his shoulders to his lower back. The muscles stand out starkly as each one is held hostage by the sheer agony infusing him, fighting unsuccessfully. 

He can’t hold his pushes as long anymore, so he pushes more often more forcefully, hard grunts being punched out of his throat. 

With each strain, the dark shape behind his skin is moved farther down in small increments, rocking forward and back within him as he fights for its expulsion. His anus is red and inflamed, quivering as it struggles to stretch and pass what is spreading him. 

With a low, raspy scream, the Soldier pushes hard enough that it began to breach out into the open air. His hands are buried tightly in his own hair, tugging hard with each spasm. Crying out with each hard, frenzied push, he widens his gait and growls as he pushes so hard that the bottom of a baby begins to crown, holding him so widely open that his entire lower body becomes frozen in pain. 

He is hyperventilating even as he reaches back with shaking fingers to touch the newly exposed skin holding him wide open. With another strain, more comes out, pushing his buttocks farther apart and forcing him to arch his back with a sharp keen. 

His left arm stretches forward to dig so hard into the frame of his cot that the metal immediately warps, screeching under his superhuman grip. With painful slowness, the wide girth of the baby he is birthing muscles through him, ruthless and wide and unyielding. 

By the time the baby’s legs breach his bloodless hole, he is splayed akimbo like a ragdoll, his hips almost unhinged where they lay spread against the cot, one leg dangling so far off that his ankle scrapes along the cold concrete floor. 

When the two curled up legs are finally released from inside, the rest of the body slides out quick enough that the Soldier flinches and breathes harshly, entire body shuddering. His right hand moves down to touch the half-birthed form questioningly, feeling along the stretched rim of his anus where only the head was left inside. 

He sobs loudly with his next push, thighs shaking helplessly. He grunts and cries out as he arches and heaves against the drenched fabric of his cot. 

He drags his body back upright in a jerky fashion as he blinks unseeingly forward. His lips and chin are smeared with dark blood as a blood vessel that has burst in his nose continues to stream sickeningly down his face. He traces the stretch between his legs once more and props his left shoulder against the wall. 

He breathes in great, heavy bellows before he grits his teeth and closes his eyes. Whimpering, he pulled his lips back as he breathes shakily, temple rubbing roughly against the wall.

One, two, three, four, hold. One, two, three, four, release. 

With a roaring, throat-tearing scream of effort, the Soldier pushes hard enough to release the head, the baby’s body falling with a wet noise out from between his legs, down onto the soiled mattress pad beneath him. 

Like a marionette whose strings have been severed in one swift cut, he collapses hard, barely controlling his descent enough to not crush the fragile form beneath him. His arms weakly reach out to bring it to his chest. 

The Soldier’s face cannot be seen behind the mess of wet hair and dark red. With a few whimpering pushes, he releases the heavy, fleshly placenta uncaringly where he lays, inner thighs smeared with amniotic fluid, vernix, and blood. His entire body trembles. 

The baby doesn’t cry. The Soldier stays curled around it until the video feed freezes, both forms still and small and alone.

~*~

The screen of the tablet cracks and shatters with a shockingly clear sound when Steve smashes it against the table and throws it down onto the floor at his feet. 

He can barely breathe through his rage, and he bends and weeps helplessly into his palms, curving around himself. The wavering forms on the broken screen flicker and blur before his eyes, even while they are shut. 

He feels the ghost of a large hand pressing between his heaving shoulder blades, a whisper in his ears as he hyperventilates, chest hitching painfully at the lack of air as his entire being is infused with pain, anger, and powerlessness. 

One, two, three, four, hold. 

One, two, three, four 

Release.


End file.
